The Writer
by Caitlynnn
Summary: Eli; the writer. He writes his inner monologue desperately trying to find out who Eli really is. Is he real? Is he alive? As he writes scenes from his life take place. And one story leads to... a suicide. ONE SHOT


**An inner monologue. **

**I don't own Degrassi. **

**I wish I had beautiful words. **

**Enjoy.**

"Your whole lifeline is this: the day you were born and the day that you die. That's what it will be on your tombstone and your lifespan is the little dash in the middle. It's not a lot. It's almost in fact, nothing but yet here we are. Each carrying our own weight, our own fragments each dying to be heard, to be seen, well sneak away into a place I like to call oblivion."

He stops writing and puts down his pen. It pulsated and had color. It danced around him in his tiny room, the voices in his head begging to write more to finish his story. The writer thought he was satisfied... He wasn't.

So he picked up his pen and wrote again.

A new story:

"I hate when people tell me to live like today was my last. I don't understand why can't I live in the now. If I die I die. My last moment is my last moment. It doesn't have to be some epic thing. The only thing I want when I die is to not go into oblivion. Now that? That is scarier than dying. They say you're die three times, the first is your first heartbreak, the second when you see someone you love cry, the third is when you are on the last thread dangling and you know and you feel fine, but the people around are not fine. You die three times in your lifetime and it all happened at random. It's crazy, isn't it? People die all the time. There are fourteen bodies for each person who is currently alive. You are accountable to fourteen bodies. Yeah, everyone dies, and everyone lives. People are just people. You can't give us that much credit. Who told us to be here? Who gave us the option to live? That's the power of free will and I intend on using every minute of it."

The writer set his pen down again and smiled because this story was greater than his last. He was confused and puzzled twisted and deranged he wanted people to feel what he was writing he wanted them to think and with that his eyebrows creased and he said to himself quietly, this will not do.

So he picked up his pen and wrote again.

A new story:

"They fell in love with their pain just like they fell in love with each other. Some say you can never love anyone until you love yourself. It's bullshit. Though partly true. You can't love someone if you don't love yourself but that doesn't mean you don't rebel against it. People love because that's what we were born to do. A mother loves her child simply by just giving birth. Though a child is born selfish. That's just the way they are. At first they cry and then they need to be feed. That's the thing about love, once it hits you you're wounded and well never coming back. When you love it's fierce, it's scary basically the unknown. That's what makes it so exciting. They're going to break your heart and you WILL feel like dying because nothing hurts as bad as them breaking your heart. You can't blame them. You LET them break your heart. You let them have that strain over you. Blame yourself. Don't blame them. They're human too. That doesn't mean they should treat you like a bitch or a bastard. It just means you move on and forget. How else can you be with them if you can't forgive them? They will hurt you again. No doubt about it. You fall in love, they break your heart, the process is repeated. And repeated and repeated and repeated. The funny this is though is this: you do the same thing to them. That's how you know it's real."

The writer dropped down his pen again. This time he sobbed. No words came to him. Everything he wrote wasn't enough. He pushed himself the pen ink's blood pouring out on the paper making the words sink into its own little oblivion. The writer didn't stop it from spilling out. He watched and hoped that the words weren't lonely that he wrote enough to keep them company. He cared about his writing more than he cared about anything else in his life.

He looked out the window and pretended he was a boy again.

The grass was newly clipped, the trees dancing in the air, girls and boys everywhere watching the young writer scream up into the air. A branch had falled on the ground he started to twist and shout. Something was wrong with him that day, his sprained ankle out on display. So he kaid there on the ground trying to find beautiful words to say.

So then it hit him that's what he'd do:

Write.

The writer snaps out of his reverie shaking his head in spite. He was so depressed tonight.

Perhaps he felt he let the younger boy – himself – down. Because he did let him down. You come up with promises to the future, saying how you'll never do something and then you find out that you do end up doing it. You break your own promises and your younger selves heart. How fucking dare you? How dare you break your own heart? Its cruel. You're setting yourself up for failure. You cant help it though.

The writer feels bad for breaking his heart but he knows he's brave enough. Your younger self was innocent. Sometimes you experience things and se things you probably shouldn't have seen.

So the writer said to himself, _It's okay to weep._

The writer picked up his pen and wrote again.

A new story:

"The boy fell in love. That's all he knew. But it didn't matter. She didn't feel the same. He wasn't sad, he wasn't bitter about it, but he accepted it. It hurt to fall in love, it hurt to care about someone so much. When you love someone, and really love someone it creeps up on you in a instance. There are feelings you can't control.

You feel like dying. Romanice is a tricky thing and when they cry you die. Because you're involved and you want to cry too because the amount of pain you go through watching them; it changes you.

So the boy couldn't go back. He didn't want to. He was in love with someone who'd never love him back. And he loved that because it was so human.

The girl looked at him and smiled because she knew. Yet, she could never love himlike that; she didn't want to. So they held hands and kissed and he hugged her and silently cried.

The boy, the younger writer, believed in soulmates. And he knew he found his love, he was holding her. So this is what he thought: You can find your soulmate and not be together. But you do come apart of each other.

They were meant to fall in love with each other. And they did. But she departed from him.

The girl was drawing back, the boys view of her beginning to drown. He took one last look of her because soon enough they'd be memories. And the only way he'd know her is through his words.

He'd create her in every story; never forgetting her. Because when a writer falls in love with you, you'll never ever die.

And so the boy walked back the images in his head turning gray. The color draining out.

He loved and loved, and loved. But sometimes love isn't enough.

The writer looked down at his art and shook his head. _This is not enough. _

The pen ink was slowly drying out so he bent down and picked up his pen and wrote again.

A new story: The End.

"The boy sat in the cold room. The papers were everywhere and he wasn't even there. His mind was in a fog as he held the gun to his head. He didn't dare move or he'd be dead. So he stared at the ground and he started to cry, the papers beneath him were going to get wet. It was the last letter that's he'd ever write. So he sucked it up and pushed it over to the side thinking of his life that was passing him by. He wasn't sure what he was going to do after he died. Perhaps become a ghost? Live in other people's lives? Would he come back as a spirit from the dead or would he just be a zombie instead? Not sure on what he was doing he developed his plan but someone up above was saying, "I want that man." So he was conflicted inside of him a pain grew he didn't know what to do other than cry all over his shoes. So he kept on crying his weep growing bigger unsure if he was going to pull the trigger.

No one really cares about you unless you die. No one gives a damn if there's a bullet or a knife at your side. That's the thing about humans, they need to know. They can't if you don't show them that you want to go. Your life is fragile its soft like your skin. Once you cut the first wound there is no stitches to put back in. So the boy kept on playing with his toy, the thing you would call a gun. He put it inside of his mouth chewing it like it was gum.

"What are you doing!" The insides of him said. "I just want to die." He whispered and said.

There was something wrong with him deep from within something inside of him broke as a kid. He would be forgotten he thought, people only cry for a week. But he wasn't someone worth crying over, was he? So his plan began to form and the inside of him shook he was like a hurricane in a hot weather, the two just don't cook well together. So the plan the water began to boil over and he started to cry again thinking of his life and all who would miss him.

He was scared of oblivion, too afraid to die. All he wanted was the hurting to stop inside.

He called himself "The Writer" He took pride in the name, he lived on that stuff, like it was his cocaine. He wrote beautiful words, they all each had a twist. He would never be beautiful though, his story ended. There is nothing you can do to stop a boy from shooting. Once they get that gun in their hands… you have no clue of what they're doing…

And so the boy kneeled down the gun back up to his head and he was getting his final wish.

To be dead."

The writer wrote the last line in hurry bliss. But the faint feeling went away and the colors all turned to gray. He had no idea why he felt this way. He thought he could make his thoughts stopped but they kept on racing back and forth in his mind no end to this one, he thought.

The writer finally stopped his writing. Signing his name up at the top. Eli Goldsworthy.

The writer picked up his pen and wrote again.

A new story: The Great Unknown...

**Review?**


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